The Mourning After
by HpGeek
Summary: What may or may not have happened after Sirius' death at Grimmauld Place. Lupin-centric. RLSB, of course. Reviews would be lovely.


It was just past noon when he returned to 12 Grimmauld Place that day. He'd taken Tonks to St. Mungo's with Moody and had spent the morning by her bedside. Finally, Kingsley had returned from relaying events to the Ministry and clearing up several lingering problems. He'd wanted to speak with Remus, but the werewolf thanked him politely and had excused himself to Apparate back to Headquarters.

Shutting the decrepit door behind him, Lupin leant against the aged wood and put his head to rest on the peeling paint. The house was musty and, even at midday, dim at best. Weak sunlight drifted in from the grimy windows but quickly disappeared into the inky gloom of the corridors, and for this he was thankful. Somehow the warming, early summer day didn't quite fit with the gaping chasm in his chest. A choked sob echoed about the hall, and it took him several moments to realize he'd made the sound. Slender white hands reached up to brush away the hair that had fallen into his eyes. He was surprised at the wet skin beneath his fingertips. _I'm crying_, he thought detatchedly.

Lupin slumped to the floor, his tired gray head coming to rest on the tops of his knees. Shuddering gasps forced their way out, and he could not bring himself to lessen them. Not now. Certainly not here. He looked about the house with an apathetic air. The demons that resided here did not belong to him, and their owner was gone. Why give them the satisfaction of his anger when it was not his they wanted?

The damp gloom abruptly invaded him, and he shivered involuntarily. He did not know how long it would be before Dumbledore requested he return to his work, or an Order member or two dropped by for condolences and a place to rest. All he had now was the present; he did not own time, but for a moment of his own, time did not own him.

Standing slowly, Lupin brushed off his shabby robes and wiped his face dry. Carefully he ascended the steps, one at a time, not too heavily, treading quietly so as not to disturb the peaceful dark.

The third floor loomed ahead. Buckbeak bleated suddenly from the shadows of the room on his left. Eying him warily, Lupin stepped inside, leaving the door open. The hippogriff cocked his head and nudged the werewolf's hand with his beak. Lupin didn't even need to bow anymore.

"Later," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I need-to be alone..." He walked briskly from the room.

It took him several moments. He stood outside the bedroom opposite, gazing unseeingly at the partially open door. Nothing but a nearly inaudible sigh, then the door was pushed open to reveal-

A sparsely furnished space, probably used as a guestroom in the glory days of the Blacks. There was nothing to suggest this room was any different than the seven others in the house. Obviously, there had never been anything too out of the ordinary about this room, nothing to pique Mrs. Weasley's curiosity, at any rate. It sat untouched by other Order members simply because it never stood out. There was a dark wooden dresser pushed into a corner next to a broken writing desk. A short door on the right led to a nondescript bathroom with an ugly, claw-footed tub. In the center of the room sat a large oak bed with a rotting canopy. The quilt was fine but worn, embroidered with silver thread depicting the heavens. A sewn star at its top was coming undone.

Lupin was unable to move. To say he was numb would have been incorrect- he could feel pain as he had never known it before sear through him like electricity. But strangely, it drained his energy instead of sparking it, and he fell to the bed in one gracefully undignified heap. Pulling the blanket up over himself, he felt his body curl slightly to the left, as it had always done...The pillow beneath his head smelled moldy, and the sheets under him felt damp. Already he felt his cheeks moistened by tears unshed for too long.

Breathing heavily, he lay down his head, keeping silent for no real reason. There must have been a part of him ready to shout, wail at the walls, but if there was, he didn't show it.

A musky fragrance clung to the air around him. It seemed to have arrived out of nowhere, but it was too familiar to be out of place. He inhaled deeply and a feeling of calm washed over him, restoring his composure and relieving a part of the heavy ache from his body. Turning over in a hazy state of sleep-impending reality, he thought he could just make out-

No, there was...nothing beside him. The room was empty.

A/N and Disclaimer: I hereby dedicate this work to the wonderful people who reviewed my other fics, specifically "Old". This is stealthily becoming my new favorite way to write-fanfiction. It's cathartic. So rewarding, sort of. As long as I get the writer's crack-that is, REVIEWS! YAY! Okay, done being girly and fifteen years old now. Even though I'm still fifteen years old. And a girl. I don't own Harry Potter, by the way, could you tell?


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